


Helping more helpfully than cats

by Feather (lalaietha)



Series: Settle in and find your home [12]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Clint Barton's ethics, Gen, Natasha's Giftgiving Hobby, Sam is a mental health professional, Sam's Psychological Expertise, careful steps towards friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-02
Updated: 2015-12-02
Packaged: 2018-05-04 14:43:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5337956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lalaietha/pseuds/Feather
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the cab pulls up to his curb, Sam pays the cab-driver, pulls his duffle out of the back and slings it over his shoulder, and walks up his own driveway - to find a white guy he doesn't know sitting on his front doorstep. And that's not usually a thing that happens to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Helping more helpfully than cats

**Author's Note:**

> This series is linked to my [your blue-eyed boys](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1690700/chapters/3595874) and [(even if i could) make a deal with god](http://archiveofourown.org/series/132585), and explores both Sam's pov of same and also other things Sam is doing in his own life. 
> 
> Fic follows Sam's trip to New York in [your blue-eyed boys (1: someone's bound to get burned) chapter 4](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1690700/chapters/3595928) and thus predates the events of [[why are you laughing]](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4120441) on Natasha's end.

Most likely because he's basically spent the extended weekend being completely spoiled, as far as creature comforts go, Sam grabs the first-class upgrade for his flight home. Afterwards, he's not sure it was a great idea - not because it wasn't nice, but because it _was_ , and now he's not sure he'll ever have much luck resisting the upgrade again, if it's there to grab. It might have been better for his budget not to know the vast difference between the serfdom of economy and the comfort of first class. He's been in less comfortable living-rooms. 

He spends the flight comfortably dozing with a coffee, a danish that actually tastes like it was made out of food, and less than three weeks ago, and music in his headphones. He's almost sad when the plane lands. 

And then uses the cab-ride to his house to start kicking his head back into gear for work, life, all that stuff, because it's all going to descend on him tomorrow. 

At a thought, he pulls out his phone and sets up a reminder for when he gets in tomorrow morning, because now that he's both seen the guy himself _and_ Steve's being a bit more honest about everything that's going on, Sam wants to talk some stuff over with Laura more or less as soon as possible. Not that he thinks anything's on the edge of going wrong: he just wants the impressions fresh in his mind. 

When the cab pulls up to his curb, Sam pays the cab-driver, pulls his duffle out of the back and slings it over his shoulder, and walks up his own driveway - to find a white guy he doesn't know sitting on his front doorstep. And that's not usually a thing that happens to him. 

The guy looks to be in his mid-to-late thirties, maybe, with short brown hair, an unremarkable leather jacket and black boots. He's got sunglasses on, even though it's not that bright out. And while Sam's still pretty sure he doesn't _know_ the man, there is something familiar about him. 

He looks pretty comfortable on the step, neither aggressive, nor apprehensive, nor like he's trying to cover up either. Considering all of that, things in Sam's head go _click_ and then leap to a conclusion, and just before he gets close enough for it to be natural for the guy to start talking, Sam guesses, "Clint Barton," because if he's right then hey, the guess looks good, and if he's not he's got no fucking clue who the hell this could possibly be, so why would he care if he guesses wrong? 

And it turns out he's right: his visitor makes a small gesture of acknowledgement with one hand and says, "Nicely done. I was kinda hoping you'd get here before she got back." 

As Sam walks up his steps, he extends a hand and Barton takes it, and at the least, the man feels no need to act out insecurities or dominance struggles via handshake. "Nice to meet you," Sam says, letting the kinda odd remark pass for now. "Mind if I ask why you're here?" 

"Because it's hard to do major house-renovation work on your own," Barton replies, standing up, "even when you're Tasha." 

When Sam stares at him, he smiles tightly. "Yeah, can we go inside? Like I said: I was hoping you'd get here before she got back." 

 

Inside, the house looks normal, if a bit suspiciously clean given he'd left for New York at the end of a pretty busy work-week and doesn't recall cleaning it up (because he didn't). Barton takes his sunglasses and jacket off; Sam drops his duffle and takes _his_ jacket off, and then gives Barton a quizzical look. Barton crooks a finger over his shoulder and leads the way down the basement stairs, saying, "Yeah, down over here," and Sam follows. 

He stops on the last two steps, where everything opens up and you can _see_ the rest of the basement, and he stares at it. And then he sits down on the step. And stares some more. He says, "Ho-ly shit," giving each syllable its own little space to spread out into. 

Barton leans against the wall, arms folded, and makes a sort of presenting gesture with his top hand while he shrugs. 

When Sam left, the basement looked like it's basically looked for the last two years: around about the Bad Anniversary those two years ago, he'd somehow forgot how much he hates DIY crap and knocked out the old, grubby walls, and so on. He'd meant to fix up the basement; he meant to finish it, put in a bathroom, put a door on the one room, basically turn it into somewhere he could put some home workout stuff and a pool table and a guest-room. He'd meant to do that since he bought the house, but true to the part where he really _does_ hate this stuff, he hadn't got around to it. 

And since the burst of energy and the need, two years ago, to _do something_ with that frantic energy, something that mattered, Sam hasn't got around to doing much _more_ with it either. Made a couple desultory attempts to kick his ass into gear, attempts that always seemed to dissolve into the realities of Work and Life. He'd figured it'd stay the way it was until some day that Cara came to visit, made a horrified face and talked him into hiring someone to finish it for him. 

Given Corinne's right at the age now that she might actually get something out of visiting DC, he'd also figured it wouldn't be that long. In the meantime, he'd just used it to store stuff that doesn't have any other place, or is a bit too messy to want in the rest of the house, and kept the door closed. 

Now - 

Well first of all, there are walls, period: finished, drywalled, painted walls. Second of all, there's a pool-table - clearly second-hand, but also clearly patched up, re-stained, re-covered and completely functional. It's standing on what looks like some of that new bamboo flooring, there's some simple-but-tidy crown moulding and baseboards all around the place, the walls are mostly a nice off-white except for the one accent wall in what's actually the exact blue he meant to use somewhere down here. The doors to both the planned-to-be guest-room and the previously-broken bathroom are both open, and they're both done, too: Sam can see tile in the bathroom and a vanity, and more of the bamboo flooring in the bedroom. 

"There's a new shed out in the back," Barton adds. "The old one's kinda gone. Anything that wasn't completely, unsalvageablely broken from the other one is in there, but you might want to have a look through: there's some stuff that was falling apart but could theoretically get fixed that we left, but if you don't want it, now's the time to get rid of it. Shed's also got everything Natasha couldn't figure where you'd possibly want it, or where it was meant to be. Mostly everything's from the ReStore except the paint and the floor." 

Sam stares at him and his calm, matter-of-fact manner, and then at the basement again, and eventually says, "I am stunned, awed, kind of ecstatic, and more than a little creeped out right now." 

There's a laugh in Barton's voice when he says, "Honestly, I'm kinda glad _creeped out_ only made fourth place there." 

"Yeah, well," Sam says, absently, still staring around him, "I did just get back from taking advantage of a chance to stay at Stark Tower to check on the current state of the Rogers domicile - my perspective might be Off right now." 

"Point," Barton acknowledges. "Pepper there?" 

"Nope," Sam replies. 

"Then that'd definitely do it. I made some coffee upstairs," Barton says, standing up from the wall. "Let's go talk for a minute." 

 

Sam doesn't actually know much about Barton. Thus far he's existed as a kind of grace-note attached to what Sam knows of Natasha: frequently - well, almost perpetually - mentioned as being somewhere, or part of something, or generally attached to the idea of something, but otherwise defined mostly in negatives and negative spaces. Sam knows he's not the result of any kind of secret experiment or society or hyper-espionage training scheme, he's not military, he's not all that well-known outside of very specific circles and even there what fame there is attaches itself to the codename _Hawkeye_ and mostly amounts to "scary guy" without getting into specifics, and he's not really a central player in many stories or anecdotes. He even managed to be more or less invisible on the old Battle of New York footage, at least until Natasha dropped the SHIELD database. 

Mostly the guy's just kind of . . . there. In the background. 

Within even these few minutes of meeting the guy, Sam's got a good idea that that's on purpose. The man fits into the space around him - doesn't stand out from it the way Steve can't help doing, doesn't bend it around himself like Natasha does around herself, doesn't command it the way Fury did or even the way Agent Hill did, just . . . fits into it. Manages to embody the sense of _just a guy, just here, no need to worry about it_ so perfectly that it leaks out into the air around him, changes how other people see things. Especially him. 

It's a skill Sam's seen before, one he tends to think of as a survival-skill. Or maybe one step further: survival-skill implies survival-mode, and that's why so many things that are survival-skills for one particular set of awful fucking situations turn out to be the shit that hamstrings you once you get out, like the poor woman who can't stop seeing IEDs in trash on the side of the road. This kind of thing's one step further, where you can keep using it all the rest of your life if you need to - but it still mostly comes from a place where you had to develop it or pay. 

Because this trick is, well, tricky: it means you have to be ready to accept whatever curveball life throws your way, fully cognizant of your complete irrelevance and near powerlessness in face of the vast infinity of the universe, or even the human world. There's not a lot of people who can get _comfortable_ with that. At least while still managing to be a functional human being. Most people, when confronted with that, either scrabble for every bit of control they can get, or they give up and surrender all control possible - domineer, or fold. This guy, not so much; this guy, Sam thinks, can accept it and move on, knows how far his capabilities of control reach and where they don't, and just . . .deals with it. 

It puts you in a place where you don't have to demand anything from the people around you, and that's rare, in Sam's experience. Mostly you get two people together, there's a dynamic, either an exchange or a clash, depending on whether what one party needs and can give compliments that the other party does likewise, or whether they conflict. This guy can get along with most people, because as a matter of habit he doesn't do either. 

Guys like that, Sam knows, can be dangerous people. 

Sam realizes he's tired, on a level deep enough it's got nothing to do with lack of sleep or with travel. Tired on the edge of being discouraged, tired and missing Riley, right now, missing how Riley always had energy coming from somewhere, and also missing the bone-headed stuck-pig stubborn that Riley could so easily substitute for optimism or sometimes even hope. 

Speaking of one-step-up-from-survival-skills. 

"Coffee's fresh," Barton says, interrupting Sam's thoughts. "I'd pour some, but being this is your kitchen and all, that might get a bit weird." 

Sam could point out that it's a little late for that, but one look at Barton says Barton already knows, and is just waiting to see _how_ Sam's gonna react to that. So he sighs, draws his hand down his face. "Y'know," he says, "I think right now I'm okay with weird. And I'm gonna go sit on the couch. Seems like you know where everything is." 

"But not what you take in your coffee," Barton says, equably. Sam resists the urge to laugh, a little hysterically. 

"Just some cream," he says, and goes into the living-room to drop himself on the couch. 

There's a comfort to it, the moment he does, the moment he settles. He likes his living-room, he realizes; he likes his couch. It's not home the way a lot of people would think of home, because it's just him - and honestly even he's still holding out a sliver of hope for the other kind of home, before he dies. Even if he's getting old enough that it's not likely. But it's home because it's where he started putting himself back together, and it's home because it's where he figured out how to do something with his life and save people that didn't need to involve shooting other people, figure out how to do something that mattered by himself, without anyone by him. 

That thought's almost sadder than he likes, under closer examination, but it's also true. This is where he figured out he could pick himself up and dust himself off and go on alone, if he had to. When he was a kid there was his mom, through most of his early adulthood there was Madlen, and then after him and Madlen read the writing on the wall and called it quits he went straight to the military, and found Riley and Pararescue, and all the rest. 

After Riley died, Cara couldn't carry Sam as well as Corinne, and Sam never would've asked her to, but it meant that time he had to figure out how to be alone. So he did. Wasn't sure he was up for another partner, anyway. Not like that. It's nice to know that someone's always got your back, but it means when they don't you feel naked, and twice was about what he could handle, at least for now. 

Sam'd be a liar if he said this trip hadn't reinforced that. If he said it wasn't sobering and kind of scary, watching Steve pour out everything he's got, basically his whole soul, for the tense, silent and deeply, _deeply_ fucked up man in his spare room. He understood by now that Steve didn't have a choice, or at least that the choice not to try would actually fuck Steve up worse than trying and having it eat him, but that didn't make it not scary. All Sam can really do is be grateful about how the guy showed up, and when, and that everybody Steve needed on-board seemed to be. 

He'd fucking hate to think what would happen if they didn't have that. If Steve'd done something to scare Barnes off coming to his place, if for any one of a million reasons Stark _didn't_ want to help as much as he does, if, if, if - so many goddamn 'ifs'. And any one of them would make all of this so much uglier, make it cost so much more - and not just for Steve, or the man he's trying to help, but probably for the rest of the world, too. 

After all the first time someone seriously threatened this man, Steve single-handedly went after one of the most fortified positions in the Western theatre and wrenched the Second World War onto a completely new track. And that had been after being tiny and sick most of his life and then a stage-performer for months. God only fucking knew what the guy would decide he could do now. 

Barton hands Sam his cup of coffee, when he comes in. He sits with his own in the arm-chair that, of the two of them, is closer to the couch, and says, "Tired?" 

Sam rubs the back of his neck and then takes a drink of coffee before putting it down on the side table. "Well it wasn't exactly a vacation," he says, bluntly. "As I'm sure you're well aware." 

Barton sort of half-nods to acknowledge that, and raises his coffee-cup slightly. "On behalf of myself and the world that doesn't know it should be thanking you," he says, "thank you. And no, I'm not joking. If you weren't willing to do this, Natasha'd have to, and she probably could, but it'd cost her. And all things considered, it might not work as well, and that is an unexploded nuclear bomb sitting in that condo in Brooklyn." 

"I have had the thought," Sam allows. He notes that this is not, prima facie, an explanation of downstairs, but now he's sitting on his couch and has a coffee Sam's willing to let the guy take his own route to get there. At least for now. "Steve's not rational about this, and I don't think he can be." 

Barton glances over Sam's shoulder for a second, the way people do when they're looking at their own thoughts more than the person they're talking to. "I know the feeling," he says. He leans forward to rest his forearms just above his knees, still holding his coffee mug by the fingers of one hand. "You know you made a pretty big impression on Natasha," the man says, conversationally. And he's still got that air of 'just a guy, no need to worry', and Sam'd be a fool to believe it. Oddly, though, the fact that behind that facade there's a hell of a lot of scrutiny going on doesn't feel . . . threatening. Not from this guy, here. 

"I'm not sure if I should be flattered or terrified," Sam says, and it's true. The brief flash of Barton's half-smile is complicated, but real. 

"Flattered," he says. "Definitely flattered. Natasha doesn't have a lot of faith in human nature," he goes on. "She's seen too much of it, and she can read people deeper and better than you think she can. And that's said with me taking into account that you would have noticed she's pretty good at reading people - I'm saying that however good you already think she is, she's actually better. And with that in mind, she basically considers you proof that Steve Rogers' god really does love him, that he managed to meet you and start in the direction of making friends, _just_ in time for you to save his ass. And hers." 

"Normally I respond to compliments by saying I was only doing what I had to," Sam says, after a second's pause, shifting a little on the couch and reaching for his coffee, "but that's not what you're actually doing, is it." 

Barton shrugs a little bit, changes which hand's holding his mug. "It's a complimentary assessment," he says, "but no, you're right. What I'm doing is giving you enough background to get the weight of what I'm going to finish up with telling you. Natasha was raised by a KGB program meant to turn little girls into perfect covert operatives and assassins," he goes on, without actually giving Sam any time to respond to that. "She doesn't trust people, mostly. She makes extremely practiced and professional assessments of their likely courses of action, and then relies on that, but that's trusting herself - and she's got _lots_ of reason to trust herself. 

"She didn't get to do that, with you. She had to take you on trust, because she didn't have anything else, and not only did you not let her down, you were basically the lynchpin that saved everyone, which is a pretty big deal. It means she likes you, Mr Wilson," Barton finishes, "and she wants to be friends." 

Sam thinks he actually follows what Barton means pretty well, and so he says, "But she was also raised by a KGB program meant to turn little girls into perfect covert operatives and assassins," When Barton's half-smile confirms Sam's getting the drift, he goes on, "So sometimes, especially when she's just found out the people who she defected to were secretly hold-over Nazis, her idea of what's normal and appropriate is a little . . . " 

"She's got a pretty good handle on what's normal," Barton says, as Sam lets that trail off. "But she also knows that under certain kinds of stress the only way she can look normal is by putting on a whole constructed persona, and since that's a pretty comprehensive lie she doesn't really like doing that with people she wants to be friends with. On the other hand you're a smart guy, and a perceptive guy about people, so it's not like you're not going to notice when she's off, or temporarily acting instead of being. Breaking in and taking it upon herself to fix something big you needed fixing, complete with slightly creepy levels of educated guess about exactly what you wanted, is kind of like throwing someone in the water to see if they can swim. If you can handle her doing that, then things are probably okay. And if not, well, at least she'll know. And if you can, hey - you've got a finished basement, which kind of works well as a thank-you for not being evil, cowardly or whatever else you could've been." 

Sam thinks about that for a minute, lets it sort of settle in his head; he's still letting it settle when he remarks, "Pretty drastic test." 

"Knowing Natasha for any length of time," Barton replies, "means finding out she's perfectly capable of doing a lot of very scary things. It's kind of a demonstration of some of them, and a way of figuring out if you'll trust her not to use them to hurt you." 

_That's_ a point, Sam has to admit - not one he'd thought of, but really the very fact he didn't think of it underscored it. When that sort of thing sneaks up on people, they do tend to react badly. Sam watches his guest thoughtfully for a minute or two, and then asks, "So why are you telling me? I'm pretty sure you've got a reason and without implying anything unfortunate, I still doubt it's got much to do with my peace of mind." 

"Congratulations," Barton tells him, looking a bit amused. "You're doing a fantastic job of demonstrating why she's sure of what she's sure about you." 

He takes a drink of his coffee, pauses for a second, and then says, "I'm telling you because with all of that in mind, and what it means, if you are going to freak out or run out of tolerance, I'd take it as a personal favour if you'd do it _now_." He meets Sam's eyes. "Rather than later." 

Barton's closer to Sam's age than to Steve or Natasha's, Sam realizes. Not that there's that _many_ years difference there between all of them, but there's . . . enough. It makes a difference. 

He sits back against the couch and doesn't answer right away. The whole thing deserves thought, needs thought, and what Barton said deserves an answer with thought behind it. 

"Out of curiosity," Sam asks, after a minute, "what else is she likely to do?" 

Barton takes a deep breath and glances upwards, like he's speculating. "By the end of the year she'll probably know everything there is to know about your finances," he replies, "and how to get into them in case something happens and you need her to. Plus basic health and safety stuff, and who you really care enough about someone could use them against you, and the easiest way to get those people somewhere safe if it comes up, any little secrets or indiscretions in your past you don't tell anyone else about, in case one's going to blow up in your face, and depending on the state of your eating habits she'll probably fill your fridge and cupboards whenever she's around. Which she already did this time, by the way," Barton finishes, gesturing towards the kitchen. "She just went to get fresh fruits and veggies and that stuff." 

All stuff that, from the point of view of a normal person, is pretty unreasonably invasive. 

The thing is, it's also pretty easy for Sam to turn the whole point of view sideways, look at everything from the perspective of someone who knew from childhood that there were really bad people out there who probably _were_ out to get you, or at least wouldn't hesitate for a second to go through you or otherwise use you for their own ends, and that knowing that meant knowing you were always in danger, something could always be about to break, and there were things you had to know in order to look after people when it does. 

Sam still has an emergency go-bag, stocked and ready by the front door, filled with stuff he rotates through so nothing goes bad or expires or breaks - so that he's always ready if he has to get out of here, if some kind of disaster hits. Even just a fire. A lot of people he knows think he's paranoid, but he can't _not_ think about that stuff, and the hundreds of things that could actually happen just in a normal city's life and how much easier life'll be if he can just grab that bag and go. 

Safe enough to figure that kind of comparison is kind of . . . almost infinitely extensible. You'd still always hit a point of helplessness, the point where it's "well if that happens, we're just fucked" - like, Sam's go bag has a pretty damn good medical kit but if someone needs major surgery there's just nothing he can do. But change how you look at it, and what you can do, and where you hit that point of helpless - that could change a lot, Sam figures. Natasha's point of medical helplessness might actually hit before Sam's did, but in other fields, she had miles further she could go than him.

And he hadn't missed the part where Barton said _figuring out if you'll trust her not to use them to hurt you._ Even if she hasn't done it yet, she's always going to be able to; you can't take that away. 

And really, he's not going to lie: it _is_ flattering, when someone like Natasha Romanoff wants to be your friend. Even if it does make for some strangeness in your life. 

And Sam didn't miss the _personal favour_ bit either, or what it implies; it occurs to him now that code-name Hawkeye's trademark trick is using a bow instead of a gun, and Natasha wore that little gold arrow necklace basically all the time Sam'd spent with her. 

And when it comes right down to it - his basement's finished. And it's pretty nice. And he didn't have to do it. 

"There's also the bit where if she thinks you have some kind of unreasonable tendency to self-denial," Barton adds, "she's going to make it her life's mission to make you stop. This may or may not be a problem you actually have, but it's . . . a thing." 

At that, Sam has to laugh. "No," he says, "I don't think that'll be that much of a problem." Barton shrugs, but Sam thinks the guy actually is applying that laugh and demurral to the whole damn thing, because Sam thinks he sees him relax a bit. Not that he's wrong. It's just an interesting thing to notice. 

"Rough few months?" Sam decides to actually say out loud, as Barton takes a long drink of coffee. Then he makes a face. 

"We have actually had worse," he replies, sourly. "Both of us. And on a cosmic scale it could definitely be worse, and I remind myself of that," he adds, making a gesture with one hand. "I mean, I could be Steve Rogers." 

Sam laughs and winces at the same time. "It's true," he admits. He hesitates for a second, but then decides the hell with it, and goes on, "And yet you know the scary thing?" 

Barton proves his choice right when he fills in, "The guy's still less dismally, soul-crushingly depressed now than he was when you met him?" 

Sam rubs his face and shakes his head, not as an answer to Barton but at the whole situation. "He's exhausted and stressed out as all loving fuck," he says, qualifying the answer, "but yeah, pretty much. Which scares me." 

"Good," Barton says, with more weight than Sam expects. Enough to make Sam look at him sharply. Barton looks completely serious. Well. As completely serious as he probably ever looks. "It _should_ scare you," he says. "It sure as shit scares me. Everything about this is scary. _I'm_ just glad Stark's decided to be helpful instead of useless or a pain in the ass - or a block in the road. He could easily be any one of those and then we'd have a fucking problem." Barton pauses and says, "And it's not really Barnes that should scare you, you know that. It's Rogers." 

"You know," Sam notes, surprised, "you are the first person who really agrees with me on that? I mean to be fair, Stark just insists there's no problem, and won't be a problem, and everything's fine, but with everyone else - " 

Barton chuckles softly, and it's dark and sardonic. "Yeah, I . . . have some specialized experience they don't have," he replies, wryly. "Maria should probably know better, but given all the shit that's on her plate these days I'll cut her some slack on that one. No, Barnes is simple - worst comes to worst he's just going to kill everything he thinks is a threat and run and hide down some dark hole somewhere and starve to death. What should worry everybody is what Rogers'll do, if he thinks he has to, because the answer is basically _anything_." 

A glance at his face lets Sam guess at what kind of experience he's talking about, what kind of experience lets him make the judgement, and also tells him he doesn't _want_ the story right now, because it's guaranteed to be upsetting and depressing. 

Instead, he says, "So are you guys planning on staying here overnight?" 

 

It's about another twenty minutes before Natasha arrives, in the same car she picked Steve up with that morning that sometimes feels like years ago, with the backseat full of produce and milk. Sam thinks he sees a little bit of tension leave when Sam just says, "I really appreciate the work, just - warn me next time," but he wouldn't actually swear to it. Besides, he moves on pretty quick to, "Where did you learn to put up drywall?" and then discovers the answer is "SHIELD coursework". 

That's apparently the answer to a lot of unexpected esoteric skills both his unexpected houseguests have. "Never let it be said," Barton tells Sam, dryly, "that SHIELD was not a _relentlessly_ self-improving agency." 

Natasha does get Sam to give her a run-down on his visit, while he puts the fruits, vegetables and other sundries away; she ends up leaning on the counter, braced on her forearms, frowning in thought. 

"Better than I was afraid of," she says. "But the prosthetic - " 

"Not good," Sam agrees. "But as far as I can see, it's not good that goes on a shelf for now." 

"Seems that way," she agrees. She stands up, leaning her back against the counter instead and still frowning thoughtfully. "Give me your impression of Barnes again?" 

Sam sighs. Folds his arms and leans against the counter too, as the fridge swings closed for the last time. Barton's sitting at the table, drinking another cup of coffee. 

"Wary," he says. "Not hostile but not far from it, uncommunicative, incredibly blunted affect - damn near flat affect, frankly. What else . . . avoidant - I think he was making a point by being out in the living room when I first got there, but by the time we were leaving for supper he was back in his room." 

"He won't think of it as his," Natasha says, detached. "Everything in that place is Steve's, he doesn't get possessions." She sighs and looks at Barton, who shrugs. "Well, he could basically go anywhere, from there," she says, which is basically what Sam'd figured. "Just have to wait and see." 

Barton makes steelhead trout and lemon risotto for supper, which is if nothing else a lot better than what Sam'd been planning as he headed home, and also comes with the story of why Barton knows how to cook as well as he does, which ends with a knife fight in a restaurant kitchen, and Jasper Sitwell's mild apoplexy afterwards. 

"I'm still mad I didn't get to kick him off the roof," Barton adds after that, sitting down to eat. 

"I thought of you when I did it," Natasha says, bland. "And then I found out Steve's still intimidated by facial piercings." 

"Then Sitwell got thrown in front of a speeding truck from a car speeding the other way," Sam adds. 

Swallowing a mouthful, Natasha notes, "I was a little bit too busy trying to keep us all from getting shot to enjoy that moment for you." 

"It's okay," Barton says, gravely. "I can enjoy by the power of imagination. I truly regret that I am probably never going to be able to actually tell Barnes _thank you_ for that. I mean, considering." 

Natasha snorts. 

 

Other than 'intimate' and 'central' and 'incredibly important', even by the end of the night Sam can't exactly pin down the nature of Barton and Natasha's relationship. Not in any way he'd want to commit to. They don't act quite like lovers, but they're in each other's space more than most people would be with a friend, and it's got an edge to it he wouldn't usually put to _adopted sibling_. 

Not that he needs to pin it down, but trying to classify things is human nature, more or less. By the time he's got to go to bed if he's going to work tomorrow - and he is going to work tomorrow - Sam's leaning towards "idiosyncratic". He wants to say they're probably sleeping together, except that there's something about Natasha that makes him hesitate with that one. He gives it up as a bad job. If it ever ends up being any of his business, he's pretty sure he'll find out. 

They accept Sam's invitation to crash in the living-room one more time before they go, since there's no bed in the downstairs bedroom yet. Barton heads downstairs to use that bathroom, though, while Sam tries to convince his legs they need to help him get up so he can go to bed. It takes a lot of convincing, and when he gets up he pauses, because Natasha's in the living-room doorway, leaning on the frame. 

Her face is hard to read, other than kind of thoughtful and inward-focused; she says, "Thank you, Sam," in a low voice. 

Sam shuffles through a few ways to respond, because he's pretty sure he knows what she means, but they all end up sounding wrong; in the end he just says, "You're welcome." 

Then he yawns, and it's totally involuntary; Natasha smiles a little. When Sam can make his jaw relax again, he says, "I don't know when you guys want to be up and whatever, but I'm out the door by seven, seven thirty." 

"We're headed to Argentina tomorrow around ten," she says, and Sam shrugs. 

"Well," he says, "I'm pretty sure you know how to lock up behind you." After she laughs, he says, "Good night, Natasha." 

"Sweet dreams," she replies.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic]helping more helpfully than cats](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7487028) by [echolalaphile](https://archiveofourown.org/users/echolalaphile/pseuds/echolalaphile)




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